


Crisis Control

by callervera



Series: Alpha Beta Chi AU [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2753555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callervera/pseuds/callervera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer is winding down and Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras are heading back for their sophomore year of college, but Combeferre needs to confess something to Courfeyrac before they all move into their new off-campus house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crisis Control

**Author's Note:**

> What started out as a quick back story exercise suddenly became its own 5K prequel to my main fic, _Liberte, Egalite, Fraternity_. I regret nothing.
> 
> If you haven't read [LEF.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1723619), you should! It would make me happy.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr.](http://icallervera.tumblr.com/)  
> Come say hi.

Summer Before Sophomore Year

Summer vacation is drawing to its inevitable close and Combeferre is having a crisis.

Despite the air-conditioning that blasts through the vents into Courfeyrac’s messy bedroom, Combeferre can feel a bead of sweat forming at edge of his sandy blonde hair. His hands are fidgeting nervously along the edges of his plaid shorts and he forces one of them to stop jittering so he can reach up and wipe away the offending drop of persperation. Combeferre isn’t usually a sweater _or_ a fidgeter, but he also isn’t usually in crisis. This shouldn't even be a full-blown crisis: all he has to do is talk to one of his best friends. He talks to Courfeyrac everyday. It should be the simplest thing in the world. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have to simply "talk" to Courfeyrac, he has to "Talk" to Courfeyrac and that capital T makes this task all the more difficult.

Combeferre has been sitting in the worn plaid recliner in the corner of Courfeyrac’s bedroom for the better part of an hour, watching his friend pack for their move back to campus the next day. The room looks pretty much the same as it had during their high school years: a shelf stuffed with academic achievement trophies looms precariously over the desk, threatening to dump its contents onto the stack of comic books and playscripts that already litter the surface. The walls are a patchwork of theater posters and above the bed hangs a quilt that Courfeyrac’s mom had made from his old drama department t-shirts. There are also a ton of photographs- some in frames, some just tacked right to the light-blue wall-paper.

Combeferre’s favorite is a snapshot of himself, Courfeyrac and Enjolras on the night of their freshman year homecoming dance, standing in Courfeyrac’s living room stuffed into matching rented tuxedos. They’d gone stag, but Courfeyrac’s mom had bought them all identical red rose boutonnieres. In the photo, they have their arms slung around each other and Courfeyrac is grinning an enormous, metal-filled smile, his mouth too big for his face. Combeferre grin is small, tight-lipped smile but his eyes are bright behind his large black glasses frames and Enjolras stares straight into the camera, looking mildly confused as to how on earth he ended up in a cumberbund and snug red bow-tie. If Combeferre remembered correctly (and he always did) that bow tie wound up in a trashcan in the boy’s bathroom about four minutes after they’d arrived at the dance. They’d all been so young and tiny and horribly awkward.

“Oh! I should totally bring that to school!” Courfeyrac snatches the picture from Combeferre and sets in on a teetering pile of textbooks and then looks around, his mouth scrunching up into a frustrated little moue. “Now, where is my newsie hat?” Courfeyrac dives under the bed in search of the missing cap, leaving Combeferre to gaze around at the hurricane of random items that constitute Courfeyrac’s idea of “packing.”

For a while, Combeferre had tried to be of assistance but he couldn’t find rhyme or reason to Courfeyrac’s haphazard method of tossing clothes, books and other various personal belongings into random piles on his bedroom floor. The piles were growing taller by the minute and there are about two dozen unassembled cardboard moving boxes leaning against the wall. Combeferre is growing increasingly concerned that Courfeyrac is planning to fill all of them.

“Courf, do you really need to bring your Nerf crossbow to back to college with you?” Combferre had asked earlier. He’d asked the same thing about a box of wigs, a cardboard deer head and the entire hard-bound collection of Harry Potter books. The answer had always been yes. Yes, Courfeyrac did need whatever random object Combeferre had objected to. He is getting a bit worried. Their off-campus house is big enough for the three roommates—Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras—but Combeferre isn’t convinced it will hold the three of them _and_ nineteen years worth of Courfeyrac’s accumulated personal belongings.

Although Enjolras’ sparse nature might balance out Courfeyrac’s need to hoard random crap. Combeferre wouldn’t be surprised if Enjolras showed up tomorrow at their new house with nothing but his laptop, a backpack full of books and his favorite red jacket. Enjolras wasn’t big on possessions… although sometimes Combeferre hypothesized that he simply forgot to pack.

Despite his anxiety about the impending Talk with Courfeyrac, Combeferre is excited to get back to school and move into a house with his two best friends. They’d found the perfect little bungalow just a few blocks away from campus and it is going to be nice to be back at school in a place of their own, out of their parents’ houses. There is something about being back in your childhood home after a year of freedom at college that is particularly depressing. The three of them were nearly twenty years old, but spending too much time around their parents was causing them to revert to petulant teenagers.

It wasn’t so bad for Combeferre: his parents typically worked late at the hospital and left him in relative peace. Courfeyrac’s family had been out of the country for the last part of the summer and he’d had his house to himself. But this summer had been hard on Enjolras, who faced a daily barrage of questions and criticism from his conservative parents and usually exited his house in a stomping, door-slamming rage. Combeferre was always amazed that, in a mansion as large as Enjolras’, his friend couldn’t manage to avoid his mother and father.

Enjolras sought refuge at Courfeyrac’s house when he wasn’t working long hours at his summer internship. Combeferre usually joined them. “I’m glad you’re here, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac told him almost every day, while they were watching movies or playing videogames or sitting around Courfeyrac’s pool. “Without you, Enjolras and I would probably have burned my parents’ house down weeks ago.” Enjolras typically acknowledged this statement with a grunt and a nod of his head, barely looking up from his laptop and whatever website he was reading or speech he was typing.

This was their normal and Combeferre cant’t wait to continue it at back at school, in their own house filled with cheap Swedish furniture that they are planning to buy when they get back to campus. But first, Combeferre needs to have this Talk with his friend.

It doesn't help that the friend in question is currently on his hands and knees with his head buried under bed and his ass positioned enticingly in the air. _His exceedingly well-toned ass,_ Combeferre can’t help but notice. And that is so very troubling because Combeferre never used to notice those things about Courfeyrac. He never used to notice how great his ass looks in jeans and how well-toned his arms are after a year of working out at the university gym. How only one side of his mouth dimples when he smiles or how his big brown eyes have the slightest flecking of gold near their pupils. The only things Combeferre used to notice about Courfeyrac is that he could quote _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ in its entirety, that he knew a truly startling amount of show tunes, that they were best friends and that he loved him like a brother. But now Combeferre is noticing all of these other things and he is pretty sure that the L in love--much like the T in the Talk they really need to have--is now fully capitalized.

The summer had been going so normally. Enjolras had an internship at a law firm, Combeferre was taking a couple of online classes and Courfeyrac had landed a small part in a production of _Romeo and Juliet_ at a small local theatre company. They spent all their free time together, planning meetings, talking politics and social justice, and being their typical Triumverate of Awesome.

And then the thing had happened.

“Can you help me run my lines, ‘Ferre?” Courfeyrac had asked him one weekday afternoon in late June. They were in Courfeyrac’s bedroom, Combeferre laying on his stomach reading a novel while Courfeyrac paced around the room, muttering lines of dialogue under his breath. Their phones kept blowing up with texts from Enjolras, who was apparently engaged in an epic battle with the copy machine at his internship. The weather outside was warm but hadn’t yet turned hot enough to warrant air conditioning. The bedroom windows were opened to allow a cool breeze to blow through the room and it ruffled the pages of Combeferre’s book.

“Run your lines?” Combeferre was confused. Courfeyrac’s play had opened the weekend before and he was word-perfect in his small role as Balthazar. Combeferre and Enjolras had attended the opening night performance, brought Courfeyrac a dozen red roses and joined him for the opening night soiree.

It had been a good party, as far as theater parties go. Combeferre had a pleasant discussion with the Assistant Director about floral themes in the play. Enjolras had stood uncomfortably next to him, trying to dodge overtures from several actors in the cast. Courfeyrac had spent most of the party with his arm slung around the girl playing Juliet, furiously flirting with her in front of the actor playing Romeo. Then the three of them—Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac—had gone to a 24 hour diner, ordered a pile of breakfast food and complimented Courfeyrac’s performance in the show as they stuffed their faces.

But the play was open. Why did Courfeyrac need to run lines?

The script that Courfeyrac was holding out to him was covered in penciled notes and there were more lines highlighted than Combeferre would have expected. Combeferre looked closer. “Wait a second, Courfeyrac: are you understudying _Romeo_?”

Courfeyrac grinned sheepishly and pulled one hand up to scratch the back of his neck. Combeferre noticed, for the first time, that only one side of his smile had dimples. Why had he never noticed that before? Courfeyrac shrugged as he said, “Yeah, they asked me to cover it and was I like ‘sure, whatever.’”

“Why didn’t you tell us? That’s fantastic!”

“Meh, it’s not a big deal.” Courfeyrac tried to sound nonchalant but his eyes were shining, and Combeferre could tell he was excited. There were these little flecks of gold in Courfeyrac’s brown eyes that caught the light. Had those always been there? Combeferre wasn’t sure. Why was he just noticing them now? “I’ll probably never even go on. But I need to learn the lines and the blocking and all that stuff. And our understudy rehearsal is next week so… can you run lines with me? Please?”

Combeferre agreed and set his book aside but Courfeyrac yanked him to his feet before handing him the script. “I need to run my lines with the blocking so could you, I don’t know, just sort of stand while I act around you?”

Combeferre did. He stood in the middle of the room, holding the script and reading all of the other characters’ lines while Courfeyrac acted around him. Courfeyrac moped on as Romeo while Combeferre counseled him as Benvolio, and moved playfully around as Combeferre clumsily acted out Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech.

They’d reached act one, scene five and Courfeyrac had stepped out of character for a moment. “Okay, this is the dance scene, so I need to do this waltz thing that Romeo and Juliet do. Can you hold your script with one hand and do the lines with your other hand on my shoulder?”

Of course Combeferre could. He shifted the script into his right hand and put his left on Courfeyrac’s arm. His skin was smooth and the muscle was surprisingly firm. When had Courfeyrac’s arms gotten so toned? He had been an awkward, tiny thing all through high school but Courfeyrac didn’t feel like a skinny teenager anymore. He had actual muscles. Combeferre’s breathing hitched a bit. The room seemed to have gotten warmer. Something unidentifiable was beginning to stir in the pit of his stomach, but Combeferre didn’t have time to think about it. Courfeyrac’s hand slid along his lower back, pulled him close and suddenly they were waltzing.

Combeferre was desperately trying to keep up with the lines from the script clutched in his hand, but he was finding it extremely challenging to focus on the words when the firm press of Courfeyrac’s hand was pulling their hips together. And Courfeyrac’s eyes were on his, the gold flecks even more noticeable as they looked adoringly into Combeferre’s. Acting. This was just acting. Courfeyrac was looking at Combeferre the way Romeo was required to look at Juliet. It was only acting, that was all. Combeferre still couldn’t quite breathe, though.

“Saints do not move,” Combeferre managed to squeak out and then finished the line to give Courfeyrac his cue. “Though grant for prayers' sake.”

Combeferre heard the beginning of Courfeyrac’s next line—“Then move not, while my prayer's eff—“ but the rest of the words were drowned out by the pounding of his own heart in his ears because Courfeyrac’s other hand was making it’s way up his chest, stroking along his jawline and ending up clutching the hair at the nape of his neck. The words stopped and Courfeyrac’s mouth was on his, warm and soft.

Combeferre felt a bolt of panic whip through him and then he remembered that this was a stage kiss. This was only a stage kiss: chaste and warm, and totally fake. Not real.

The hand in his hair tightened and the pressure of Courfeyrac’s mouth on his increased, and it certainly felt real. Combeferre heard a soft moan and realized, with some shock, that it came from him. _Oh my god_ , Combeferre thought wildly, but Courfeyrac’s tongue parted his closed lips and Combeferre stopped thinking entirely. He didn’t know if he pulled Courfeyrac to him or if Courfeyrac had guided him closer, but their hips were aligned and their legs slotted together as the slick wetness of Courfeyrac’s tongue pressed further into his mouth.

Combeferre now recognized that mysterious feeling from before, because it had now expanded from a little spark in his stomach to a full-blown explosion of desire that was careening through every inch of his body. This was want. He wanted Courfeyrac. He wanted Courfeyrac right the fuck now. Combeferre had never wanted anything so badly in his entire life.

The script hit the floor with a clatter of pages, but neither of them heard it. Combeferre buried his newly freed hand into Courfeyrac’s curls and tugged. Hard. Courfeyrac moaned and nipped at Combeferre’s lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. Every other kiss that Combeferre had experienced in his short romantic history was eclipsed by the feeling of his best friend ravaging his mouth, biting him, teasing him—

And then Courfeyrac’s mouth was gone, leaving Combeferre’s lips slightly parted, wet and horribly abandoned.

He opened his eyes and found Courfeyrac staring at him in surprise. The little gold flecks in his eyes were sparkling around his wide pupils. Courfeyrac’s mouth was parted slightly and Combeferre wanted nothing more than to find it with his again, but Courfeyrac had planted both of his hands on Combeferre’s shoulders and held him at arms length.

They both breathed deeply for a moment, inhaling and exhaling in synchronized pants.

Courfeyrac had mumbled an apology—“Sorry, I got really into the scene. Acting, you know. Uh, sorry, I’m _so_ sorry—“ made an excuse about needing to get into the shower before his show that night and he retreated into his bathroom, leaving Combeferre to show himself out.

And that was that. Neither of them spoke of it. Combeferre just assumed that Courfeyrac had forgotten about the incident. They’d continued to hang out on a regular basis and Courfeyrac hadn’t been acting differently. There might have been more silences than usual, but it was hard to tell since Enjolras tended to fill any gaps in conversation with loud rants about whichever cause he was most passionate about on that particular day.

Courfeyrac may have forgotten about it, but Combeferre certainly hadn’t. His nights were suddenly filled with dreams of that kiss, of it going further; of Courfeyrac’s strong arms holding him down while their bodies pressed together; of lips on throats and hands fisted in curls. Combeferre woke up hard most mornings. This was getting out of hand.

And they really need to Talk.

Combeferre doesn't want to Talk. He'd rather cross the room, slide his hands around Courfeyrac's hips and simply pull the other boy to him. Finally experience what that ass would feel like if Combeferre were able to press his pelvis flush against it and simply grind, like he’d been fantasizing about doing all summer. If actions speak louder than words, Combeferre has no doubt that a simple, direct action could completely take the place if this Talk that he needs to have.

But that isn't how Combeferre does things. That's how Courfeyrac does things. And Combeferre finds it particularly problematic for his impending Talk that Courfeyrac has never done that with him.

They’d kissed, sure, but it was an accident. It had been a simple stage kiss that had barely been a blip on Courfeyrac’s romantic radar, but had ignited a desire deep inside Combeferre that he’d never felt before. At first, he’d simply chalked it up to a dry spell. He hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time- not since the first semester of the previous year, when he’d gone on a few dates with a guy in his Biology class that Courfeyrac had set him up with—and Combeferre blamed his new obsession with Courfeyrac’s mouth on his pent-up sexual energy. He just needed to hook-up with someone. Anyone. It didn’t have to be Courfeyrac.

Then he did. There was a cute barista at the café downtown where he and Courfeyrac would meet Enjolras on his lunch breaks. Combeferre had once mentioned off-hand that the guy had nice eyes, Courfeyrac had worked his considerable charm and gotten his number. Combeferre met the barista for a date. They’d made out. It was terrible and fumbling and awkward. And now none of them could go back to that café.

If he was being honest, Combeferre was a little hurt that Courfeyrac was so eager to set him up with another guy. He’d been hoping, secretly hoping, that his friend felt the same way about him. That Courfeyrac had been waking up thinking of Combeferre, too. That the kiss had meant something to him. That he’d feel the slightest pang of jealousy at the thought of Combeferre with someone else. Because Combeferre wanted to simultaneously vomit and punch something at the thought of Courfeyrac kissing another person. And Combeferre was not a puncher of things, but this Courfeyrac situation was really starting to get under his skin. Which was problematic on the night that Courfeyrac had gone on as Romeo.

Early one Friday morning at the end of July, Combeferre was awakened by the sound of Courfeyrac’s personalized ringtone blaring from his phone. “ _Gotta find my corner of the skyyyyyyyy…”_ the phone had shrieked at him. Courfeyrac had been very into _Pippin_ lately. Combeferre fumbled with the phone in a panic, his thumbs too sleepy and clumsy to slide the answer icon. The only reason that he could think of for Courfeyrac to be calling him this early in the morning, actually calling and not sleepy-texting, was if something terrible had happened. Visions of a sick Courfeyrac or incarcerated Enjolras danced through his head as he finally calmed his hand down and answered the phone.

“Courf, what’s wrong?” He’d skipped the customary hello and jumped right to business. If Courfeyrac was in mortal peril or Enjolras was in a holding cell, there was no time for pleasantries.

It took him a moment to decipher the garbled sounds coming out of the speaker _—“IMGOINGONASROMEOANDTONIGHTANDINEEDYOUANDENJOLRASTOCOMEANDSEETHESHOW”—_ as actual words translating to “I’m going on as Romeo tonight and I need you and Enjolras to come and see the show.”

Of course they went. And while Enjolras spent the afternoon at his internship and Courfeyrac had a put-in rehearsal at the theater, Combeferre _might_ have driven to the mall and bought a new outfit for the occasion. He’d needed some new school clothes anyway. He wasn’t entirely sure that he needed the tightest pair of skinny jeans that he’d ever ventured to purchase or a slim-fitting blue shirt with a coordinated blue plaid bow-tie, but he didn’t _not_ need those things, either. Also, it was totally just a coincidence that blue was Courfeyrac’s favorite color. Absolutely coincidental and not at all on purpose.

“Your pants are really tight,” Enjolras pointed out as they walked from the parking lot to the theater, Combeferre carrying a bouquet of roses and only uncomfortably shifting the tiniest bit in his stiff new jeans. “Why are your pants so tight? You never wear tight pants.”

Combeferre brushed off the question with an excuse about trying to turn over a new, more fashionable leaf. Enjolras gave him a slightly suspicious glance out of the corner of his eye but let the issue drop as they entered the theater.

The houselights went down and the play started and when Courfeyrac made his entrance as Romeo, Combeferre nearly fainted. He was costumed in skin-tight black leather pants and a white shirt that was undone almost to his navel, showing of the top of a six-pack. When did Courfeyrac get abs?

The line-through that Courfeyrac had done for Combeferre in his bedroom that day was nothing compared to Courfeyrac onstage. He was breathtaking in his passion. Combeferre was couldn’t look away… until the scene at the dance when Romeo kisses Juliet. It was so familiar. The same lines leading up to the kiss. The same enraptured expression. His hand on her waist as they waltzed. The way he caressed her jaw and moved his hand into her hair before he—

Combeferre turned away before the kiss. He couldn’t watch. His face crumpled up and he let out a small whimper of disappointment before he could censor himself.

“Calm down, ‘Ferre,” Enjolras had whispered to him in the dark theater. “He’s not that bad.”

And that was that. Combeferre sat through the rest of the play in a numb stupor. Courfeyrac had been acting when they’d kissed. There was nothing there. The cast went out after the show to congratulate Courfeyrac on his performance and Enjolras and Combeferre had tagged along, Combeferre weighted down by the knowledge that his love was unrequited and that the best kiss of his young life had been nothing more than really good acting.

And now, Combeferre sits, all fidgety and sweaty, in the recliner in Courfeyrac's childhood bedroom, just one day before they move into a house together. He tries to think of the right way to segue into the Talk, but he keeps getting sidetracked by his view of Courfeyrac’s ass. If this new obsession with his best friend’s physique continues when they are back at school, Combeferre’s grades might actually begin to suffer. This whole situation is troubling. Troubling and a bit heartbreaking, really. It is rough being in love and desperately wanting your best friend when he doesn’t want you back.

When Courfeyrac wants something, or someone, he simply reaches out and takes it. Combeferre had seen him do it for years while they were in school. Courfeyrac was the first in their circle of friends to kiss a girl... and then the first to kiss a boy. He recounted the story of losing his virginity at summer camp to an enthralled Combeferre and a tolerant Enjolras. Courfeyrac had more love affairs during their senior year of high school than most people have over the course of their lives.

If Courfeyrac was interested in you, you knew it. Probably because his arm was around your shoulders and he was murmuring words of undying affection (interspersed with some truly filthy propositions) into your ear.

Combeferre knows how it works because he's seen it in action million times, even on his own behalf. Courfeyrac was nothing if not a good friend and an excellent wingman. He considered himself one hundred percent responsible for any and all physical action that his friends got: Combeferre because he was too shy to make a move and Enjolras because he simply didn't care enough to make an effort.

Poor Courfeyrac. Combeferre is pretty sure that he feels terribly guilty about his vivacious sex life and tries his hardest to make sure that his friends are also sowing their oats.

The point is, Courfeyrac has never been shy about letting people know his intentions, and he had never made the slightest overture toward Combeferre, outside of their accidental stage kiss. And that wasn’t Courfeyrac making a move, it was just Courfeyrac following his stage directions. It was nothing to him.

Combeferre sits in the recliner in Courfeyrac’s room, chews his lip and rethinks his plan. He could just keep his silent about his feelings. He and Courfeyrac and Enjolras could pack up their stuff in a U-Haul and move into their off-campus house at school tomorrow. They could buy cheap Ikea furniture and throw parties and study together and run their _les Amis_ meetings and Enjolras and Courfeyrac would never know about the desire and want that was banging incessantly in Combeferre’s head and heart. Nobody would have to know that Combeferre was horribly in love with one of his best friends.

And Combeferre would keep silent and watch Courfeyrac bring home random attractive strangers on various nights of the week. He’d close his door to his bedroom and put on headphones if the noise got to be too much. He could take his laptop and leave the house early to study in a coffee shop or the library to avoid running into the random hook-ups doing the walk of shame out of Courfeyrac’s room in the morning.

That would be unbearable. And that isn’t how Combeferre operates. He’s going to be honest with Courfeyrac _right now_. Today. Right this very second. Before they move up to school the following day. They can work through this. They are best friends and they always will be best friends, even if it takes Combeferre some time to work through these feelings.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre is saying the words, he’s doing this. He’s actually doing this right now. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac’s voice is muffled from under the bed. He scoots back out, clutching a plaid newsie cap and a balled-up blue t-shirt. “Found my hat! And this shirt, too. I love this shirt…” There is a dust bunny clinging to one chestnut curl. Combeferre can’t help himself. He crosses to Courfeyrac, kneels on the floor next to him and gently pulls the wad of dust and lint out of his hair.

Courfeyrac looks puzzled.

“You had an, um… thing in your hair,” Combeferre explains.

“That’s what you need to talk to me about?” Courfeyrac asks, setting his newly recovered hat and shirt to the side and turning to face Combeferre, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively.

“No, I… um, I need to talk to you about something else,” Combeferre begins, choosing to get right to it. No need to draw this out. The sooner he confesses to Courfeyrac, the sooner they can come up with a strategy to deal with his infatuation while they are roommates. “And I wanted to talk before we moved into the house tomorrow.”

Courfeyrac’s face falls and he deflates a bit. “It’s about that kiss, isn’t it?”

Apparently, he hadn’t forgotten. Combeferre nods. “Yeah, it’s about that. Look, Courf, I—“

“No, stop. Please. I’m sorry, okay?”

Combeferre is a bit confused. “No, Courf, you don’t need to be sor—“

But Courfeyrac bulldozes right over him. “I know I crossed a line that day but I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” The words are falling out of Courfeyrac now, but he won’t look at Combeferre. “But please don’t worry. I won’t do anything like that next year. I swear to god, ‘Ferre, I will totally be on my best behavior.” Courfeyrac’s voice trembles here. “Just …please still live with me?”

This was shocking. At no point did it ever cross Combeferre’s mind to not move in Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Their triumvirate couldn’t be broken up by a kiss and a one-sided infatuation.

“Courf, there is no way that I would back out of our living arrangement,” Combeferre assures him. “You’re my best friend. I might need some time to get over my feelings but I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Courfeyrac breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank god, I was so worried—“ And then he stops and looks up at Combeferre for the first time. “Wait, what? Your _what_?”

“My feelings,” Combeferre finally confesses and it feels so good to get this out in the open, even if it is one-sided. At least he is finally being honest. “I know it’ll be awkward for a while, living with your friend who is love with you, but we’re mature adults and I think that we can work—“

“What did you just say to me?” Courfeyrac interrupts him again, reaching across the small space that separates them and covers Combeferre’s hands with his own.

“That we’re mature adults and we can—“

“No! Before that.”

“That I, uh, loved you?”

Courfeyrac’s face breaks into a grin and his dimple is back. “You love me?”

There is a hammering in Combeferre’s chest and that feeling, that electric, excited feeling is starting to stir inside of him again. “I do. I love you.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. God, Courf, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since—“ Combeferre begins to explain but Courfeyrac’s lips meet his and there are no more words.

Their mouths fit together again, instantly finding the rhythm that had been broken off back in June. Courfeyrac doesn’t hold back now, his tongue claiming Combeferre’s mouth, making up for lost time. Combeferre counters with his hands, burying them in Courfeyrac’s curls and holding the two of them firmly together.

 _This is nice. This is exactly how it should be_ , Combeferre thinks and then he’s lost again when Courfeyrac’s hands find their way under the edge of his t-shirt.

 ###

“So you mean to tell me,” Courfeyrac mumbles into Combeferre’s naked shoulder, nearly an hour later, “that we could have been doing that all summer?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre kisses the curls on top of his friend’s head. “Yeah, I guess we could have. Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry—“

“No, _I’m_ sorry!”

Courfeyrac stops the argument with another firm kiss, then pulls back suddenly, eyes wide and concerned. “So… what do we say to Enjolras?”

Combeferre considers this for a moment. Never, not in his wildest dreams, had he thought that this Talk would result in nudity, exchanges of the l-word and an updated relationship status. “Well, lets wait until we get up to campus and move in. Then we can sit him down and explain that we’re in love and we’re dating and that living together is going to be awesome. We’ll be a perfect little family--“

“We can tell him that he’ll have a new mom and dad!” Courfeyrac laughs and burrows further into Combeferre’s shoulder.

“He’ll be thrilled…” Combeferre pulls Courfeyrac closer to him, their bare skin and tangled limbs creating a new, unthought-of perfection.

Courfeyrac sighs happily. “This is gonna be the best year ever.”

Tomorrow they would load up their moving van and head up to college and their little bungalow. Everything was going to be perfect.


End file.
